The Mountain and the Wind
by Jessica Pendragon
Summary: A Warden is a promise, an ideal, a symbol and symbols cannot tire, but he is no Warden.


A Warden is a promise, an ideal, a symbol and symbols cannot tire, but he is no Warden.

Blackwall takes a breath and pushes onward. He ignores the heavy weight of his shield, the fatigue settling tight in his shoulders. He and the others are the only things between the Herald and this endless swarm of enemies and he cannot falter. He has failed so many others in so many ways before. He will not fail her.

So he slams his shield into the next opponent, turns around to bury his sword in the gut of another. He is cause and reaction, metal and mail. When the behemoth roars, he roars even louder. Cassandra locks tight to his side and they shove together to knock it back into Dorian's waiting glyph. The foul creature freezes, shatters as the mage's lightning streaks through.

"That's it!"

He turns to watch the trebuchet twirl. He cannot hear the impact upon the faraway mountain, but the rumble of the avalanche soon fills the valley. A relieved sigh slips through his lips as the snow and rock wipe the incoming army from sight. He is sure they will recover, but now there will be time to think, to escape. To save her.

She catches his eyes as the meager crowd of soldiers left cheers. Her triumphant grin is broad and it makes something unfurl inside his chest he hasn't felt in a long time- Pride.

A shadow flies overhead a moment before twisted fire rains down. The trebuchet explodes in bright, haunted light, the shock of it knocking Blackwall off-balance enough to lose sight of her face in the swirling inferno.

"Herald!" Cassandra shouts and he holds his breath until he sees Nara among the glowing spots in his vision. There is blood trickling down the side of her face but otherwise she appears in one piece. The creature bellows above for another pass and they all stare, wide eyed and disbelieving, at the hideous hide and terrible teeth. "Maker, is that…?"

"Blackwall!" They wait until Nara catches up before racing back towards the gates. "Is that what I think it is?"

"I don't know," he says and the sight of it sweeps all thoughts of deceit from him.

They burst through the doors of the Chantry and stumble across worn stones. The heavy wood shuts behind them but does little to dull the echoing sound of the dragon looming above.

The strange boy is there kneeling beside Roderick. Blackwall has seen enough death to know the chancellor's fate. Something about this new addition to their group doesn't settle within his gut and he's glad the wide brim of the hat keeps his gaze away. He's sure he would like what he found there.

"He wants to kill you," the boy says. "No one else matters but he'll crush them, kill them anyway. I don't like him."

"You don't like…" Cullen shakes his head. "Herald, there are no tactics to make this survivable. The only thing that slowed them was the avalanche. We could turn the remaining trebuchets. Cause one last slide."

"We're overrun. To hit the enemy we'd bury Haven."

"We're dying. But we can decide how. Many don't get that choice." Blackwall stands straighter at the commander's words. He has always respected the man for his endless dedication and honor. Cullen does not shy away from the painful truth, does not cower beneath false mantels. He is the type of person Nara deserves, but it is not Cullen that she looks to now.

She meets Blackwall's gaze for a moment again and there is a storm brewing inside her eyes. He can recognize that look. It is not defeat for she would never admit such a thing. It is something worse, a dedication that is as damning as it is daring. "Will it work?"

"Possibly. If he shows us the path. But what of your escape?" Her silence is the answer and they all know what it means, what it will cost. She faces it with shoulders pressed back, head held high. There are no misty tears or shaking limbs. She is an unwavering arrow set on this path and he feels all the stronger with the strength of her resounding spirit. He doesn't hear the rest of the conversation, if there is one, but he notices when she doesn't call out his name.

He shoulders his way through the crowd and steps between her and the doors. "My lady, let me accompany you."

"No. You're going with the refugees to keep them safe."

He wants to fight her, but he doesn't. He wants to touch her face for the first and maybe the last time, but he doesn't. Even for her he cannot find the courage and his wretched soul twists inside until he thinks he will break beneath the thunderous gaze of her steel cut eyes.

Nara reaches up and the hall fades away as nails scratch through the coarse hair of his beard. He holds his breath and can't help but lean into her hand when it stops to cup his jaw. She smiles and he forgets for a moment the false brand over his heart, the borrowed title he wears. All the things he's called himself in the darkness of his mind drift away. He is just himself beneath her bold and beautiful attention and he isn't sure who that might be, but he craves it with every broken part inside.

"Always wanted to do that," she whispers and then she is gone. He prays and prays to whatever god may still listen. He is the mountain and she is the wind relentlessly breaking down the layers of loathing around his heart. If he could but see her again, he will gladly crumble, cave, crack, to reveal the man beneath. The man she sees behind the armor, the name, the lie he has been living for too long.

A Warden is a promise, an ideal, a symbol and symbols cannot love, but he is no Warden.


End file.
